Watch Pink Floyd Play Live Amidst the Ruins of Pompeii in 1971 … and David Gilmour Does It Again in 2016

Pink Floyd is one of few bands in rock his­to­ry who could play the ruins of Pom­peii with­out seem­ing to over­reach, but it wasn’t their idea to put on a con­cert for Roman ghosts in 1971, the year before they record­ed their mag­num opus Dark Side of the Moon. Accord­ing to the direc­tor Adri­an Maben, who filmed the per­for­mance in the ancient necrop­o­lis, he decid­ed upon the loca­tion after los­ing his pass­port dur­ing a hol­i­day in Italy in 1971. He wan­dered Pom­peii alone in search of it and had an epiphany.

It was strange. A huge desert­ed amphithe­ater filled with echo­ing insect sounds, fly­ing bats and the dis­ap­pear­ing light which meant that I could hard­ly see the oppo­site side of this huge struc­ture built more than two thou­sand years ago.

I knew by instinct that this was the place for the film. It had to be here.

Mak­ing cre­ative deci­sions from a chance encounter with echoes and shad­ows was, nonethe­less, ful­ly in keep­ing with the band’s process. Despite their deci­sion to write acces­si­ble lyrics fit­ting togeth­er under a loose con­cept for their cur­rent album, serendip­i­ty and chance oper­a­tions had always played crit­i­cal roles in the com­po­si­tion of their post-Syd Bar­rett sound­scapes, and became inte­gral to Dark Side’s cre­ation.

As David Gilmour told Gui­tar World’s Alan Di Per­na, ear­ly exper­i­ments like “Saucer­ful of Secrets” (inspired by “weird shapes” drawn by Roger Waters and Nick Mason) gave rise to “Atom Heart Moth­er” and Med­dle’s “Echoes,” which the band played in two parts at the begin­ning and end of the Pom­peii con­cert film. These songs, Gilmour says, “all lead log­i­cal­ly to Dark Side of the Moon.”


And they led through Pom­peii, where the band was first “unleashed on film,” as one the­atri­cal poster put it, before they were unleashed on thou­sands of new fans after Dark Side’s release in Decem­ber. Where the filmed con­cert high­light­ed the band’s mas­tery of exper­i­men­tal space rock, the album brought this sen­si­bil­i­ty under the dis­ci­pline of Roger Waters’ sharp song­writ­ing and Gilmour’s stun­ning gui­tar play­ing and arrang­ing.

Though he is mod­est about it, Gilmour’s con­tri­bu­tions came increas­ing­ly to define the band’s mas­sive sound in the ear­ly 70s. His role, as he told Di Per­na, was “to help cre­ate a bal­ance between form­less­ness and struc­ture, dishar­mo­ny and har­mo­ny.” He was, writes Rolling Stone, “a fiery, blues-based soloist in a band that hard­ly ever played the blues,” but he was just as “adept at dron­ing avant-garde improv,” “Chic-like flour­ish­es,” and “float­ing, dreamy tex­tures,” all qual­i­ties ensur­ing that Pink Floyd’s music rose to the lev­el of their cre­ative ambi­tions.

So when Gilmour returned to Pom­peii in 2016, with­out his Pink Floyd band mem­bers, to play the first live pub­lic con­cert the city’s amphithe­ater had seen in almost 2000 years—and the only laser light show it had ever seen—the per­for­mance didn’t seem like over­reach at all. Above, see him play “Shine on You Crazy Dia­mond” and “Com­fort­ably Numb” with a full back­ing band (includ­ing Chuck Leavell on key­boards, singing Roger Waters’ parts on the lat­ter song). The mas­sive stage show and huge, smart­phone-tot­ing audi­ence makes this footage more are­na rock show than the per­for­mance art of the orig­i­nal con­cert film, but the grandeur of the music, and Gilmour’s soar­ing solos, still jus­ti­fies the grandeur of the set­ting.

You can pur­chase online the Direc­tor’s cut of Pink Floyd — Live at Pom­peii.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Pink Floyd’s “Com­fort­ably Numb” Was Born From an Argu­ment Between Roger Waters & David Gilmour

Hear Lost Record­ing of Pink Floyd Play­ing with Jazz Vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li on “Wish You Were Here”

When Pink Floyd Tried to Make an Album with House­hold Objects: Hear Two Sur­viv­ing Tracks Made with Wine Glass­es & Rub­ber Bands

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Therapeutic Benefits of Ambient Music: Science Shows How It Eases Chronic Anxiety, Physical Pain, and ICU-Related Trauma

“In forty years of med­ical prac­tice,” wrote Dr. Oliv­er Sacks near the end of his famous career, “I have found only two types of non-phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal ‘ther­a­py’ to be vital­ly impor­tant for patients with chron­ic neu­ro­log­i­cal dis­eases: music and gar­dens.” The com­ment might not sur­prise us, com­ing from such an unortho­dox thinker as Sacks. But we might be sur­prised by the con­sid­er­able amount of tra­di­tion­al sci­en­tif­ic research link­ing music and men­tal health.

Six­ty years ago, when Sacks was still in med­ical school, avant-garde jazz band­leader Sun Ra had a very Sacks-like expe­ri­ence when he played for an audi­ence of patients in a men­tal hos­pi­tal, and inspired a cata­ton­ic woman who hadn’t spo­ken for years to stand up and say ‘Do you call that music?’” The gig, booked by his man­ag­er, con­sti­tut­ed a fringe exper­i­ment in alter­na­tive med­i­cine at the time, not a seri­ous sub­ject of study among med­ical doc­tors and neu­ro­sci­en­tists.

How things have changed in the last half-cen­tu­ry.

Sev­er­al recent stud­ies, for exam­ple, have linked drum­ming, the old­est and most uni­ver­sal form of music-mak­ing, to reduced anx­i­ety, pain relief, improved mood, and improved learn­ing skills in kids with autism. Lis­ten­ing to and play­ing jazz and oth­er forms of syn­co­pat­ed music, have been shown in study after study to pro­mote cre­ativ­i­ty, enhance math skills, and sup­port men­tal and emo­tion­al well-being.

But what about ambi­ent music, a genre often char­ac­ter­ized by its lack of syn­co­pa­tion, and almost cer­tain to fea­ture as back­ground music in guid­ed med­i­ta­tion and stress reduc­tion record­ings; in slow, relax­ing yoga videos; and thou­sands of YouTube videos pro­mot­ing sup­pos­ed­ly stress-reduc­ing fre­quen­cies and stereo effects? Ambi­ent seems pur­pose-built to com­bat ten­sion and dis-ease, and in a sense, it was.

Bri­an Eno, the artist who named the genre and often gets cred­it for its inven­tion, wrote in the lin­er notes to Ambi­ent 1: Music for Air­ports, “[this record is] designed to induce calm and space to think.” Whether he meant to make a sci­en­tif­ic claim or only an artis­tic state­ment of pur­pose, research has val­i­dat­ed his infer­ences about the salu­tary effects of long, slow, atmos­pher­ic music.

Noisey Asso­ciate Edi­tor Ryan Bassil, a long­time suf­fer­er of anx­i­ety and pan­ic attacks, found the state­ment to be true in his own life, as he explains in the video above (illus­trat­ed by Nathan Cowdry). Music from ambi­ent com­posers like Eno, William Bassin­s­ki, and Fen­nesz helped him “ground” him­self dur­ing extreme­ly anx­ious moments, bring­ing him back into sen­so­ry con­tact with the present.

When Bassil looked into the rea­sons why ambi­ent music had such a calm­ing effect on his over-stim­u­lat­ed ner­vous sys­tem, he found research from artist and aca­d­e­m­ic Luke Jaaniste, who described an “ambi­ent mode,” a “per­va­sive all-around field, with­out any­thing being pri­or­i­tized into fore­ground and back­ground.” Immer­sion in this space, writes Bassil, “can help the lis­ten­er put aside what’s on their mind and use their sens­es to focus on their sur­round­ings.”

We may not—and should not—ask music to be a use­ful tool, but ambi­ent has shown itself par­tic­u­lar­ly so when treat­ing seri­ous neu­ro­log­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal con­di­tions. Foren­sic psy­chi­a­trist Dr. John Tul­ly of London’s Insti­tute of Psy­chi­a­try, Psy­chol­o­gy and Neu­ro­science traces the form back to Bach and Chopin, and espe­cial­ly Erik Satie, who “was the first to express the idea of music specif­i­cal­ly as back­ground sound,” and who had no qualms about music serv­ing a spe­cial­ized pur­pose.

The pur­pose of what we broad­ly call ambi­ent has evolved and changed as clas­si­cal, min­i­mal­ist avant-garde, and elec­tron­ic musi­cians have penned com­po­si­tions for very dif­fer­ent audi­ences. But no mat­ter the intent, or where we draw the genre bound­aries, all kinds of atmos­pher­ic, instru­men­tal music has the ther­a­peu­tic pow­er not only to reduce anx­i­ety, but also to ease pain in sur­gi­cal patients and reduce agi­ta­tion in those suf­fer­ing with demen­tia.

When he per­formed with his group Dark­room at the Crit­i­cal Care Unit at Uni­ver­si­ty Col­lege Lon­don Hos­pi­tal, writer and psy­chol­o­gist Charles Fer­ny­hough found out that ambi­ent music had sig­nif­i­cant ben­e­fits for patients trapped in what he calls “a sub­urb of hell”: the ICU. Stays in inten­sive care units cor­re­late close­ly with lat­er PTSD and what was once called “ICU psy­chosis” in the midst of trau­mat­ic emer­gency room expe­ri­ences. Seda­tion turns out to be a major cul­prit. But music, espe­cial­ly ambi­ent music, brought patients back to them­selves.

Hear the 2016 Dark­room per­for­mance at the Uni­ver­si­ty Col­lege Lon­don Hos­pi­tal ICU fur­ther up, and read more about Fernyhough’s research and per­for­mance at Aeon. The sci­ence of how and why ambi­ent works the way it does is hard­ly set­tled. Where Fer­ny­hough found that patients ben­e­fit­ed from a lack of pre­dictabil­i­ty and an abil­i­ty to “escape the present moment,” Bassil’s research and expe­ri­ence uncov­ered the opposite—a sense of safe pre­dictabil­i­ty and enhanced sen­so­ry aware­ness.

Phys­i­o­log­i­cal respons­es from per­son to per­son will vary, as will their tastes. “One person’s easy lis­ten­ing is another’s aur­al poi­son,” Fer­ny­hough admits. But for a sig­nif­i­cant num­ber of peo­ple suf­fer­ing severe anx­i­ety and trau­ma, the dron­ing, min­i­mal, word­less sound­scapes of ambi­ent are more effec­tive than any med­ica­tion.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The “True” Sto­ry Of How Bri­an Eno Invent­ed Ambi­ent Music

The 50 Best Ambi­ent Albums of All Time: A Playlist Curat­ed by Pitch­fork

Stream 72 Hours of Ambi­ent Sounds from Blade Run­ner: Relax, Go to Sleep in a Dystopi­an Future

The Health Ben­e­fits of Drum­ming: Less Stress, Low­er Blood Pres­sure, Pain Relief, and Altered States of Con­scious­ness

Why Do Sad Peo­ple Like to Lis­ten to Sad Music? Psy­chol­o­gists Answer the Ques­tion in Two Stud­ies

This is Your Brain on Jazz Impro­vi­sa­tion: The Neu­ro­science of Cre­ativ­i­ty

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

How B.B. King & Stevie Ray Vaughan Dealt With Breaking Strings Onstage Mid-Song: A Masterclass in Handling Onstage Mishaps

Play­ing music live onstage invites any num­ber of mishaps. Break­ing a string may not rank that high­ly as one of them for most pro­fes­sion­al gui­tarists. But the expe­ri­ence can still be tem­porar­i­ly embar­rass­ing. It inter­rupts the groove and forces the kind of cre­ative adap­ta­tion not every play­er appre­ci­ates on the spot. Even if you’ve got a per­fect­ly-tuned gui­tar offstage—or, bet­ter yet, a gui­tar tech to hand you one from a rack of tuned-up guitars—you might only want that gui­tar: that exact gui­tar and no oth­er.

If you’re B.B. King, that gui­tar has a name. While there were many Lucilles over the blues master’s career, when he stood in front of an audi­ence of tens of thou­sands at Farm Aid in 1985, he wasn’t about to relin­quish the cur­rent Lucille for a back-up instru­ment just because he broke a string in the mid­dle of “How Blue Can You Get.” His tech rush­es in, but instead of hand­ing him a gui­tar, he hands King a high E string, and the leg­end pro­ceeds to restring Lucille with­out so much as drop­ping a line of the song.

It helps that he’s got an ace band behind him, but it’s still a bravu­ra dis­play from a per­former who wouldn’t get rat­tled in front of an audi­ence three times this size. (Though he did once say that watch­ing Peter Green play gave him the “cold sweats.”)

As attached as King was to his sig­na­ture Gib­son 335s, so was too Ste­vie Ray Vaugh­an to his Fend­er Stra­to­cast­ers, espe­cial­ly to the gui­tar he called his “first wife,” bet­ter known as “Num­ber One.”

It’s not got as pret­ty a name as Lucille, and may not have as col­or­ful a back­sto­ry to go with it, but the specs of Vaughan’s vin­tage ’63 Strat were just as inte­gral to his tone and play­ing style as Lucille’s were to King’s. In the video above, we see Vaugh­an break a string on Num­ber One while play­ing an intense solo on “Look at Lit­tle Sis­ter” in Austin in 1989. He opts for the switcheroo instead of chang­ing a string mid-song, but what a switcheroo it is.

First, he tears through the solo with a string hang­ing loose, then he launch­es into the cho­rus, churn­ing out the rhythm after a two sec­ond-pause to grab a new gui­tar from his tech, who attach­es his gui­tar strap while Ste­vie chugs away. If you turned away for a moment, you’d be sur­prised to find him play­ing a dif­fer­ent, num­ber two, gui­tar. And, as in B.B. King’s onstage-string-change, if you closed your eyes, you’d nev­er know any­thing went wrong at all, a sign of how a true pro­fes­sion­al deals with the unex­pect­ed.

via Twister Sifter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

B.B. King Explains in an Ani­mat­ed Video Whether You Need to Endure Hard­ship to Play the Blues

B.B. King Plays Live at Sing Sing Prison in One of His Great­est Per­for­mances (1972)

Ste­vie Ray Vaugh­an Plays the Acoustic Gui­tar in Rare Footage, Let­ting Us See His Gui­tar Vir­tu­os­i­ty in Its Purest Form

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

How Kurt Cobain Confronted Violence Against Women in His “Darkest Song”: Nevermind’s “Polly”

In 1991, Nir­vana changed pop music with Nev­er­mindWe know this, and we know—or can con­firm with a few clicks—that “Pol­ly,” the 6th track on that album, sits at its very cen­ter. We can call to mind, or pull up in sec­onds, the lul­la­by cho­rus melody and the sound of Cobain’s five-string, pawn shop Stel­la acoustic gui­tar. And we may even remem­ber the lyrics, or some of them, ellip­ti­cal, deeply dis­turb­ing descrip­tions of a girl named “Pol­ly,” from the point of view of some­one doing hor­ri­fy­ing things to her.

“Pol­ly,” as Evan Puschak, bet­ter known as video-essay­ist Nerd­writer, explains above, in fact describes an actu­al occur­rence near Cobain’s home­town of Aberdeen, WA: the abduc­tion, rape, and tor­ture of a 14-year-old girl, writ­ten from the per­spec­tive of her abduc­tor, rapist, and tor­tur­er. “Of all the dark songs” Cobain wrote, says Puschak, “and there are a lot to choose from, the most dis­turb­ing to me is ‘Pol­ly.’” The inci­dent hap­pened in 1987; Cobain first wrote “Pol­ly,” then called “Hitch­hik­er,” in ’88.

“It’s a hard song to talk about,” Puschak admits, but an impos­si­ble song to ignore, giv­en its place in one of the biggest-sell­ing albums from one of the biggest bands in the world. And com­ing from Cobain, whose out­spo­ken activism defined his pub­lic per­sona, it’s a song we must hear in the larg­er con­text of a writer per­pet­u­al­ly hor­ri­fied by sex­u­al vio­lence and misog­y­ny, and unable to look away and ignore it.

“Dis­gust­ed,” writes Juli­et Macy at Go Mag, after “some of his fans spread anti-gay mes­sages in tune to his music,” Cobain left a mes­sage for them in the lin­er notes to Inces­ti­cide: “If any of you, in any way, hate homo­sex­u­als, peo­ple of col­or or women, please do this one favor for us—leave us the fuck alone. Don’t come to our shows and don’t buy our records.” He meant it, and left an even more furi­ous mes­sage for in the notes for In Utero.

“On rape cul­ture,” Macy writes, “Cobain assert­ed, ‘The prob­lem with groups who deal with rape is that they try to edu­cate women how to defend them­selves. What real­ly needs to be done is teach­ing men not to rape. Go to the source and start there.” “Pol­ly” rep­re­sents such an attempt to go to the source, Puschak argues, to get clos­er than we’d ever want to get. Its spare arrange­ment helps cre­ate its sense of inti­ma­cy. “’Pol­ly’ is basi­cal­ly Cobain and his gui­tar.”

Musi­cal­ly, this was not the kind of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty Cobain was at all com­fort­able putting on dis­play. Two years lat­er, when Nir­vana went on MTV’s Unplugged, he “wor­ried the band didn’t have the grace to pull off some­thing so sub­tle,” as Mike Pow­ell notes at Pitch­fork. Notably, one of the songs Cobain chose to play in that exposed, uncom­fort­able set­ting venue was Leadbelly’s “In the Pines,” a song writ­ten from the point of view of a man inter­ro­gat­ing a woman; a man who may be a father, jeal­ous lover, or some­thing much more sin­is­ter.

In every ver­sion of this old, vague­ly trag­ic Amer­i­can folk-blues, from its first, 1929 record­ing as “Black Girl” by Peg Leg How­ell to “In the Pines” to wordier, and white­washed, ver­sions by coun­try pick­ers and croon­ers, a sense of men­ace hov­ers, near or far, fraught with inti­ma­tions of rape and mur­der, the klax­ons the Rolling Stones rang to announce the end of the flow­ery, folky ’60s. Bands in the ’90s culled from a much dark­er strain of the coun­try’s ear­li­est pop­u­lar music than Pete Seeger, or even Dylan, and “Pol­ly,” in its old-timey instru­men­ta­tion and blues sim­plic­i­ty, touch­es into this under­cur­rent.

In “Pol­ly,” Cobain “forces an emo­tion­al iden­ti­fi­ca­tion with evil, to stop us from sup­press­ing this bru­tal­i­ty,” Puschak says, search­ing­ly, or “to stop us from evad­ing it.” Per­haps. Maybe he’s ask­ing us to empathize with a mon­ster, but he also push­es us to look at a dis­turb­ing Amer­i­can tradition—one evoked by “In the Pines” as well: mur­der bal­lads, songs, books, and films about stalk­ing, pos­ses­sion, manip­u­la­tion, and rape (see the Stones’ “Brown Sug­ar”): a near-con­stant aes­theti­ciza­tion of vio­lence against women.

This kind of exca­va­tion was lost on many of the fans who bought Nev­er­mind—those same fans whom Cobain came to loathe. His evo­ca­tions of dark Amer­i­cana were part of a gen­er­al trend of the time. In 1994, when the Unplugged episode aired, many Nir­vana lis­ten­ers of the band were also howl­ing, “Do you want to die!” to the The Toad­ies hit “Pos­sum King­dom,” anoth­er song that reached into south­ern U.S. folk­lore to tell what seems to be a sto­ry of rape and tor­ture in the woods from the per­spec­tive of the rapist and tor­tur­er. (The song’s video explic­it­ly plays with ser­i­al-killer film tropes.)

“Pol­ly” is nei­ther mourn­ful nor play­ful, and it decid­ed­ly does not rock like “Pos­sum King­dom.” Almost total­ly acoustic, drum­less, deliv­ered in a mum­bled monot­o­ne in the vers­es, and an off-key dead-eyed sing-song in the jar­ring­ly catchy cho­rus­es, it lulls and repuls­es at the same time. Like every oth­er artist, Cobain had no con­trol over what lis­ten­ers did with his music. After Nev­er­mind’s suc­cess, reports emerged of two men com­mit­ting a rape while singing the song. Cobain replied, “I have a hard time car­ry­ing on know­ing there are plank­ton like that in our audi­ence.”

But he could not have made his own inten­tions clear­er, or the bur­den he felt to con­front a cul­ture that would not lis­ten to women. “A man using him­self as an exam­ple toward oth­er men,” he once said rue­ful­ly, “can prob­a­bly make more impact than a woman can.” Iron­i­cal­ly, giv­en how much he came to resent Nev­er­mind’s mas­sive suc­cess, one of its effects was to show cyn­i­cal male record label exec­u­tives that rock stars could be edgy and also out­spo­ken about sex­ism and rape cul­ture and also sell mil­lions of albums: which helped open doors for an explo­sion of female artists and bands through­out the decade who issued sear­ing punk man­i­festos and right­eous­ly angsty alt-rock against the patri­archy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nir­vana Plays an Angry Set & Refus­es to Play ‘Smells Like Teen Spir­it’ After the Crowd Hurls Sex­ist Insults at the Open­ing Act (Buenos Aires, 1992)

Nir­vana Refus­es to Fake It on Top of the Pops, Gives a Big “Mid­dle Fin­ger” to the Tra­di­tion of Bands Mim­ing on TV (1991)

33 Songs That Doc­u­ment the His­to­ry of Fem­i­nist Punk (1975–2015): A Playlist Curat­ed by Pitch­fork

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Deconstructing Brian Eno’s Music for Airports: Explore the Tape Loops That Make Up His Groundbreaking Ambient Music

Bri­an Eno debuted Music for Air­ports in 1978 and in terms of ambi­ent music he’s been remak­ing it ever since. This ground­break­ing album was both com­posed and left to chance. “Com­posed” in that for each piece Eno select­ed a num­ber of notes and sim­ple melod­ic frag­ments that would work togeth­er with­out dis­so­nance. And “left to chance” because each frag­ment was giv­en a tape loop of dif­fer­ent length. Once Eno set the loops in motion, the piece cre­at­ed itself in all sorts of per­mu­ta­tions and inter­sec­tions.

Eno no longer uses tape loops, but he still believes in “gen­er­a­tive music,” cre­at­ing albums that are hour-long cap­tures of ran­dom­ly gen­er­at­ed tones that could con­ceiv­ably go on for­ev­er.

Dan Carr over at his site Reverb Machine has writ­ten a decon­struc­tion of two of the four pieces on Music for Air­ports, reverse engi­neer­ing them to fig­ure out their orig­i­nal loops. And the best thing is, you can set the loops rolling and have your own ver­sion play out all day long if you wish.

The first, “2/1” is rec­og­niz­able from the choral voic­es used in the score. Each loop con­tains one note sung for a whole bar, but the note and the length of the tape con­tain­ing the bar changes. This is the most basic of all the four tracks, but there is some­thing quite mag­i­cal when all sev­en loops sync up.

The sec­ond “1/2” con­tains eight loops con­tain­ing either a sin­gle piano note, a melod­ic phrase, or a glis­san­do chord. (Although the arti­cle doesn’t men­tion it, it also con­tains the choral loops of “2/1”)

You can play the loops at Reverb Machine sim­ply by click­ing on the arrow beneath each bar, or at the bot­tom “play all” or “pause all.”

For musi­cians think­ing they’d like to make their own loops and fol­low Eno’s method­ol­o­gy, Dan includes some instruc­tions.

In the com­ments sec­tion, musi­cian Glenn Sogge notes that he took the loops and cre­at­ed his own decon­struct­ed take on Eno’s clas­sic, Blooms Engulf­ing Decon­struct­ed Air­ports, which you can play at the top of this post. As he explains, the piece start­ed with down­load­ing the WAV files from Reverb Machine’s post. Then:

Beside the 15 clips of voic­es and piano, 10 long loops were build from the 10 worlds of the Bri­an Eno & Peter Chil­vers gen­er­a­tive music app Bloom: 10 Worlds (Android Ver­sion). A mix­ture of impro­vised clip-launch­ing and more stuc­ture form result­ed in 25 audio files that then mixed & mas­tered. In keep­ing with the Oblique Strate­gies dic­tum, “Hon­our thy error as hid­den inten­tion,” even a ran­dom phone noti­fi­ca­tion sound has been left in.

What do you think of Sogge’s trib­ute to the mas­ter? Let us know in the com­ments.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Six-Hour Time-Stretched Ver­sion of Bri­an Eno’s Music For Air­ports: Med­i­tate, Relax, Study

The “True” Sto­ry Of How Bri­an Eno Invent­ed Ambi­ent Music

Bri­an Eno Explains the Loss of Human­i­ty in Mod­ern Music

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

The Velvet Underground Captured in Color Concert Footage by Andy Warhol (1967)

The Vel­vet Under­ground, the band with which Lou Reed and John Cale achieved artis­tic and cul­tur­al star­dom under the man­age­ment of Andy Warhol, sure­ly have more lis­ten­ers now than they did when they were active in the 1960s and 70s. But few self-described Vel­vet Under­ground enthu­si­asts ever had the chance to see the group per­form. Not in per­son, any­way: last month we fea­tured col­or footage from their 1969 Viet­nam War protest con­cert, and we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly offered oppor­tu­ni­ties to glimpse them play­ing a 1966 Warhol-filmed show that got bro­ken up by the cops, com­pos­ing “Sun­day Morn­ing,” the open­ing track from that same year’s album The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico, and reunit­ing in 1972 to do an acoustic set on French tele­vi­sion.

But what would it feel like to actu­al­ly be at a Vel­vet Under­ground con­cert? The 1967 film above pro­vides a view of the band per­form­ing, but even more so of their fans tak­ing it in — not that they had many in those days. But what fans they had turned up over and over again to their shows at a club called The Boston Tea Par­ty, which had opened the same year.

Shot by Warhol, one descrip­tion says, it makes use of “sud­den in-and-out zooms, sweep­ing pan­ning shots, in-cam­era edits that cre­ate sin­gle frame images and bursts of light like paparazzi flash bulbs going off” that “mir­ror the kines­thet­ic expe­ri­ence of the Explod­ing Plas­tic Inevitable” — Warhol’s series of mul­ti­me­dia events put on in the mid-60s — “with its strobe lights, whip dancers, col­or­ful slide shows, mul­ti-screen pro­jec­tions, lib­er­al use of amphet­a­mines, and over­pow­er­ing sound.”

As “one of only two known films with syn­chro­nous sound of the band per­form­ing live,” as well as the only one in col­or, this half-hour of the Vel­vet Under­ground expe­ri­ence cap­tured on 16-mil­lime­ter (which you can also find on the Inter­net Archive) con­sti­tutes an impor­tant and vivid piece of the band’s record­ed his­to­ry. Today, any lis­ten­er who has ever tak­en an inter­est in the Vel­vet Under­ground will have heard the clear-eyed drug song “Hero­in” on The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico and the epic of debauch­ery “Sis­ter Ray” on White Light/White Heat many times. But these Har­vard kids and oth­ers from more than half a cen­tu­ry ago were get­ting down to them — if that is indeed the term for the behav­ior Warhol has cap­tured here — well before most of today’s Vel­vets-inspired rock­ers were even born.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch The Vel­vet Under­ground Per­form in Rare Col­or Footage: Scenes from a Viet­nam War Protest Con­cert (1969)

Andy Warhol Explains Why He Decid­ed to Give Up Paint­ing & Man­age the Vel­vet Under­ground Instead (1966)

Watch Footage of the Vel­vet Under­ground Com­pos­ing “Sun­day Morn­ing,” the First Track on Their Sem­i­nal Debut Album The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico (1966)

A Sym­pho­ny of Sound (1966): Vel­vet Under­ground Impro­vis­es, Warhol Films It, Until the Cops Turn Up

Lou Reed, John Cale & Nico Reunite, Play Acoustic Vel­vet Under­ground Songs on French TV, 1972

Hear Lost Acetate Ver­sions of Songs from The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico (1966)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

What Happens When Artificial Intelligence Listens to John Coltrane’s Interstellar Space & Starts to Create Its Own Free Jazz

Some enjoy free jazz as soon as they first hear it; oth­ers think it sounds like music from an alien civ­i­liza­tion, a lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ence fit only for a jazz fan as high as a kite. But how about as high as a space probe? Out­er­he­lios, a 24/7 stream of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence-gen­er­at­ed free jazz, comes designed for broad­cast into out­er space by Dad­abots, a col­lab­o­ra­tion between musi­cians-turned-pro­gram­mers CJ Carr and Zack Zukows­ki (or, accord­ing to their about page, “a cross between a band, a hackathon team, and an ephemer­al research lab”). Hav­ing pre­vi­ous­ly built an AI-gen­er­at­ed death met­al stream (about whose cre­ation you can read in this com­put­er sci­ence paper), they’ve looked to the skies and trained their neur­al net­work on John Coltrane’s Inter­stel­lar Space.

“These duets between Coltrane on tenor (and bells) and Rashied Ali on drums sound like an annoy­ance until you con­cen­trate on them,” writes Robert Christ­gau in his orig­i­nal review of the 1974 album, “at which point the inter­ac­tions take on pace and shape.” The neur­al net­work “lis­tened to the album 16 times,” says the offi­cial Data­bots descrip­tion on the Out­er­he­lios stream, “then con­tin­ued to make music in the style.”

The project draws inspi­ra­tion from NASA’s probes Voy­ager 1 and 2, which “launched in 1977 car­ry­ing a mix­tape Carl Sagan made called The Sounds of Earth. It fea­tured Blind Willie John­son, Chuck Berry, record­ings of laugh­ter, Beethoven, Bach, Stravin­sky, along with dia­grams of human repro­duc­tive organs,” all “intend­ed for an audi­ence of intel­li­gent extrater­res­tri­al life­forms.”

Where­as The Sounds of Earth “used a sta­t­ic music for­mat pre­vi­ous­ly record­ed by peo­ple,” Out­er­he­lios fol­lows on Bri­an Eno’s ideas about gen­er­a­tive music by invent­ing a Coltrane album that nev­er sounds the same twice. “For a few min­utes, it’ll pro­duce plau­si­ble-sound­ing free jazz,” writes Futurism.com’s Jon Chris­t­ian. “Then the drums will segue into an inhu­man trill, or the horns will dis­in­te­grate into a cacoph­o­nous wash of sound. Let’s just say that it’s not your dad’s jazz” — even if your dad hap­pens to be John Coltrane, or indeed Bri­an Eno. But per­haps it will give NASA just the inspi­ra­tion it needs to get the next Voy­ager launched. The sound of the orig­i­nal Inter­stel­lar Space got Christ­gau think­ing beyond nations: “Euro­pean, Ori­en­tal, African — I don’t know. But amaz­ing.” Could the likes of Out­er­he­lios get us think­ing beyond the solar sytem?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Carl Sagan Sent Music & Pho­tos Into Space So That Aliens Could Under­stand Human Civ­i­liza­tion (Even After We’re Gone)

Hear the Declas­si­fied, Eerie “Space Music” Heard Dur­ing the Apol­lo 10 Mis­sion (1969)

The Secret Link Between Jazz and Physics: How Ein­stein & Coltrane Shared Impro­vi­sa­tion and Intu­ition in Com­mon

Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence Pro­gram Tries to Write a Bea­t­les Song: Lis­ten to “Daddy’s Car”

Nick Cave Answers the Hot­ly Debat­ed Ques­tion: Will Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence Ever Be Able to Write a Great Song?

Space Jazz, a Son­ic Sci-Fi Opera by L. Ron Hub­bard, Fea­tur­ing Chick Corea (1983)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Songs by Joni Mitchell Re-Imagined as Pulp Fiction Book Covers & Vintage Movie Posters

I wish I had more sense of humor

Keep­ing the sad­ness at bay

Throw­ing the light­ness on these things

Laugh­ing it all away 

                           — Joni Mitchell, “Peo­ple’s Par­ties”

Joni Mitchell has been show­ered with trib­utes of late, many of them con­nect­ed to her all-star 75th birth­day con­cert last Novem­ber.

The silky voiced Seal, who cred­its Mitchell with inspir­ing him to become a musi­cian, soar­ing toward heav­en on “Both Sides Now”…

“A Case Of You” as a duet for fel­low New­port Folk Fes­ti­val alums Kris Kristof­fer­son and Bran­di Carlile….

Cha­ka Khan inject­ing a bit of funk into “Help Me,” a tune she’s been cov­er­ing for 20 some years

They’re mov­ing and beau­ti­ful and sen­si­tive, but giv­en that Mitchel­l’s the one behind the immor­tal lyric “laugh­ing and cry­ing, you know it’s the same release…,” shouldn’t some­one aim for the fun­ny bone? Mix things up a lit­tle?

Enter Todd Alcott, who’s been delight­ing us all year with his “mid-cen­tu­ry mashups,” an irre­sistible com­bi­na­tion of vin­tage paper­back cov­ers, celebri­ty per­son­ae, and icon­ic lyrics from the annals of rock and pop.

His homage to “Help Me,” above, is decid­ed­ly on brand. The lurid 1950s EC hor­ror com­ic-style graph­ics con­fer a dishy naugh­ti­ness that was—no disrespect—rather lack­ing in the orig­i­nal.

Per­haps Mitchell would approve of these mon­keyshines?

A 1991 inter­view with Rolling Stone’s David Wild sug­gests that she would have at some point in her life:

When I was a kid, I was a real good-time Char­lie. As a mat­ter of fact, that was my nick­name. So when I first start­ed mak­ing all this sen­si­tive music, my old friends back home could not believe it. They didn’t know – where did this depressed per­son come from? Along the way, I had gone through some pret­ty hard deals, and it did intro­vert me. But it just so hap­pened that my most intro­vert­ed peri­od coin­cid­ed with the peak of my suc­cess.

Alcott hon­ors the intro­vert by ren­der­ing “Both Sides Now” as an angsty-look­ing vol­ume of 60s-era poet­ry from the imag­i­nary pub­lish­ing house Clouds.

Big Yel­low Taxi” car­ries Alcott from the book­shelf to the realm of the movie poster.

The lyrics are def­i­nite­ly the star here, but it’s fun to note just how much mileage he gets out of the float­ing text box­es that were a strange­ly ran­dom-feel­ing fea­ture of the orig­i­nal.

Also “Ladies of the Canyon” is a great pro­duc­er’s cred­it. Giv­en Alcott’s own screen­writ­ing cred­its on IMDB, per­haps we could con­vince him to mash a bit of Joni’s sen­si­bil­i­ty into some of Paul Schrader’s grimmest Taxi Dri­ver scenes…

That said, it’s worth remem­ber­ing that Alcot­t’s cre­ations are lov­ing trib­utes to the artists who mat­ter most to him. As he told Open Cul­ture:

Joni Mitchell is one of the most crim­i­nal­ly under­val­ued Amer­i­can song­writ­ers of the 20th cen­tu­ry, and that now that I live in LA, every time I dri­ve through Lau­rel Canyon I think about her and that whole absurd­ly fer­tile scene in the late 1960s, when artists could afford to live in Lau­rel Canyon and Joni Mitchell was hang­ing out with Neil Young and Charles Man­son.

See all of Todd Alcott’s work here. (Please note that this is his offi­cial sales site… beware of imposters sell­ing quick­ie knock-offs of his designs on eBay and Face­book.) Find oth­er posts fea­tur­ing his work in the Relat­eds below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See Clas­sic Per­for­mances of Joni Mitchell from the Very Ear­ly Years–Before She Was Even Named Joni Mitchell (1965/66)

Bea­t­les Songs Re-Imag­ined as Vin­tage Book Cov­ers and Mag­a­zine Pages: “Dri­ve My Car,” “Lucy in the Sky with Dia­monds” & More

Clas­sic Songs by Bob Dylan Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Book Cov­ers: “Like a Rolling Stone,” “A Hard Rain’s A‑Gonna Fall” & More

Songs by David Bowie, Elvis Costel­lo, Talk­ing Heads & More Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Book Cov­ers

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inkyzine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Sep­tem­ber 9 for a new sea­son of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

 

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